Of Time, Toil, and Tears
by brynerose
Summary: History is not a kind teacher, and the more one witnesses firsthand, the harsher reality can become. How much could YOU withstand before you broke completely? And in the end, what is Albion, really? Oneshot. More description inside. TRIGGER WARNING: drug use and discussion of suicide. But the ending is worth it! Not a crossover, no slash.


**A/N: So, the muse has been angsty of late, and between the aftermath of Merlin ending and my recent endeavors to find a Region 1 copy of **_**Parked**_**, I came up with this little ramble. It's quite a bit more abstract than most of my work, so bear with me. I know everyone's been doing their version of this scenario, but it's a wonderful opportunity to character study the effects of living through centuries of history…even if the character is as good and determined as Merlin. Enjoy ^-^**

The first years were hazy and rough. He took refuge in Ealdor for awhile, seeking out what was familiar and comforting, but also what least reminded him of his lost friend. He began to travel the kingdoms little by little. News spread quickly of increasing measures to welcome magic back into Camelot. Though he never had the heart to face the Queen to which he would be ever thankful, he sought out disputes involving magic, and helped resolve them peacefully. They exchanged a few letters; in this way, he learned of her remarriage at the end of a lengthy truce process with the Saxons. War seemed a thing of the past for the time being, and an heir to the throne was ensured without bloodshed.

One by one, the people he cared about passed on. Loneliness threatened to take over at times. So he devoted himself to learning and teaching as Albion took on a new form—'England.' There were nobles who paid well to have their children taught, and monasteries that became centers for knowledge previously lost with the crumbling of the old Roman Empire. There was so much more to study besides magic and medicine. Language, trades and crafts, history. New religions took hold. The idea of sustaining faith brought a new wind to his ongoing life.

1066 was a difficult year. The Battle of Hastings drew up haunting memories of another battle, when his world had first been thrown into shambles. Bitter struggles, a kingdom fighting for its own freedom…a great leader cut down by fate. He couldn't bear the repetition of events, retreating into solitude, not caring what happened on the outside as long as it didn't touch him. His once-revered reputation dissolved into an image of madness and reclusion. He wandered, helping when and where he felt compelled, but otherwise shunning society.

He ventured south. It seemed strange at first, that England was only a small island, let alone that he would ever leave it. His ability with language and disguise saw him through lands that were not so kind to English travelers. Learning became second to medicine, both for mobility and sustainability. Fast-traveling plagues made his skills invaluable across Europe. He made a surprising living in healing, as long as he was careful. Age may not affect him so much (although he used subtle magic to keep up appearances), but he was far from invincible. Once or twice, he knew he only barely escaped his own death. Although would that be so bad? Hadn't he lived long enough? If it weren't for his promise to watch over Albion as it shifted and changed, to remain vigilant until the king's return. For that belief, he would endure sickness, war, and exile as long as necessary.

The waves of witch-hunts were especially trying. No one was above suspicion, and against the background of dangerous epidemics, even those once considered saints could easily be demonized. A healer could be working to save lives one day, and believed to be causing suffering for their personal gain the next. Soon any undesirable occurrence sent people looking for an ill-humored culprit. He lived in constant fear, watching people burn in city after city. Religion sadly fueled the fires—proclaiming justified wrath against the enemies of God. What happened to the learning to which he had devoted so much? The vast majority of them were innocent, he knew. But there was little he could do without sacrificing himself to mobs that would not see reason. The world, it seemed, was taken over by a new generation of Great Purges. Those days were dark, indeed.

He found the Enlightenment intriguing. In an effort to overcome the 'savage' days of superstition and blind religion, people turned to science and tangible explanation. The identities of whole peoples gave rise to new kingdoms, new 'countries.' Learning grew beyond the conclaves and sparse institutions. Magnificent inventions spread written word like never before. Not only were there even _more_ lands in the world, but there might be a whole space _beyond_ it. He took particular interest in this. It reminded him of home, of the Old Religion. But instead of just spiritual observances, there was actual _material_ to study in the skies. Elements within elements, forever complexities hiding inside what was once such a simple existence. And for him especially, he could still follow the thread of magic throughout all of it. If only his old mentor could have seen this come to pass…

Not all discoveries were pleasant, however. Machines began to take the place of living things. More powerful fuels soon choked and darkened the air. Cities that were once a rare novelty transformed into packed, seething, desperate places. In many countries, the privileges of the rich began to oppress those beneath them. Wars broke out when hardship-laden people rebelled against such treatment. He returned to England at this point—and found much of the land was no longer the open, green, lively Albion he first knew.

Sometimes he found a place to teach, to guide this rapidly changing world. It was his ongoing duty to make ready for the king, after all. At other times he retreated to the blessed emptiness of his true birthplace, for the sake of his sanity. Wales, it was called now. Sometimes he went to Scotland. These sacred pockets which, like him, surpassed the passage of time. He felt rejuvenated by the purity, the bare power of magic which still thrummed in the earth and within himself. How many centuries had it been? How long before destiny was fulfilled?

As the world grew, so did the conflicts. It seemed all of Europe was on the brink of exploding; soon after he escaped to America, it did. And his new home only stood apart for so long. A Great War, everyone called it. A World War. Perhaps Albion was growing too large for its own good. He didn't know what he, one single person, could possibly do to change this path. Where had everything gone so wrong? Groups of people were being singled out for no other reason than for who they were, on a larger scale than ever before. The whole world was sucked into conflict a second time, and the redundancy nearly drove him mad. Perhaps Albion simply wanted to end itself. He still believed in the prophecy, but if his king didn't return now, would he ever? This age of modernity seemed infinitely more savage than the so-called 'Dark Ages' from which he originally came. Even when the fighting ended at last—with the most disturbing power yet to be conceived—he felt like a line had forever been crossed. Who were they to master the control of the very fabric of the world, the atom?

Sometimes he thought his saw his friends. His first friends. A princess of society here, a hardworking commoner there. Powerful friends, friends who didn't know how powerful they could be. Always similar faces, but never _them_. They were only ever taken away in the end. He was alone. Maybe he always had been.

Barely 25 years later, he found himself back in England. Europe had more or less settled down, but the fervor of the Cold War and anticommunism in America felt like just the next Great Purge. The next witch hunt. Even God was put under suspicion these days. Why had he been allowed to live to see all this? So much hate, so much antagonism. Man verses man, versus woman, versus each generation. The very opposite he thought Albion was supposed to be. He just wanted to get away from it all. He didn't want the responsibility anymore. Didn't want to have to wait. Didn't want to have to feel. Some small part of him clung to hope, but it was curled up in hiding now, as was his magic. This wasn't the place for him. Hadn't been for a long time.

He decided if he had to stay, he would not remain an active participant. He stopped pursuing medicine, knowledge, teaching, everything. He shrank into the dark corners of society, doing only what was necessary to support his needs. And he found new ones. Modern medicine was obsessed with finding a solution to everything. Illness. Pain. Consciousness. It didn't take much to reach blessed detachment.

Then there were the agents that masqueraded as medicine. Liquids, vapors, powders…they worked better, in his opinion. Who cared, anyway? He was a nobody, a tiny speck holding on to the very edge of the world. Just barely, at that. He couldn't say how much time he spent these days actually coherent. Wasn't 15 centuries enough? Fifteen hundred years of trying, waiting, hoping?

_How did it come to this?_ he thought groggily. His surroundings swam into view—just another dirty, nondescript corner he'd tucked himself into. He could feel by the state of his clothes and skin how long it had been since he'd moved very far. He didn't care, either. All that mattered was the thin object in his hand. The last one he had. Stole it, too. When he had fought with the dealer about stiffing him for what little money he'd scrounged up. They had wrestled in the alley…and the syringe just happened to make it into his pocket, along with what he was actually owed. Which reminded him of his original question.

What happened to the optimistic, never-stop-fighting man he had once been? The one who had encouraged all his friends, generations of them, to keep going? Who told them it was all worth it? Well, 15 centuries happened, for one. He was _tired. _He felt incredibly old, even if his body had managed to survive all this time. He felt like for all his efforts to keep something good in the world, the world didn't want him anymore. And if the world really didn't want him anymore, why should he stick around? He had the means in his hand. He knew he wasn't immune to the natural course of life (well, aside from the whole age thing, but that was beside the point).

_Maybe I'll finally be allowed to see them again. The people I was supposed to be with. What was the point of living this long to just watch everything fall apart?_

The sting of the needle was more of a release than a pain. Then the drug washed into his system; he pushed it all in. The room quickly blurred around him. Far away, something thudded against a door. _Too late, bastard. You're not going to get anything out of me now…_ He didn't even know if the intruder made it in, and he didn't care. At last, he could feel sweet oblivion beyond plain unconscious on the horizon. It was funny, really, the human ability to know when this instance was going to be different.

. . .

White. Everything white. He vaguely expected this. He was supposed to finally be dead, after all. And it was floaty, his surroundings. Comforting. He could almost imagine the one person for whom he had waited centuries coming to welcome him.

"Come on, it's about time…"

_Tell me about it! I suppose you've been enjoying your royal self in this wonderfully peaceful existence, while I'm running around doing all the work, as usual! If you watched, I bet you've been laughing your head off._

A weight pressed onto his right wrist, though he still couldn't see anyone or anything clearly. Confusion began to set in. Is this really what the afterlife was like? Feeling slowly came back to him—the sense of lying on his back, the sound of close-set walls, the incredibly smothering process of rising through the haze of drugs.

_Wait…_

It couldn't be. How was he not dead? Was he cheated out of it if he tried to bring it upon himself? What about the knocking before he passed out? Surely it had been the dealer coming after him, who would have had no qualms beating out whatever crap was left. Yet there it was, the creepy-crawly feeling of tubes beneath his skin. One snaking across his face. Of all people, he _would_ end up having a good Samaritan find him. Then all notion of moping was taken over by the growing pain in his chest. _Damn_, someone had been desperate! But why would anyone care? There was no one left to care about him, hadn't been for a long time.

A shrill beeping made him wince. Something moved just on the outermost edge of his awareness; the weight shifted, but didn't leave his hand. Suddenly his world exploded with close noises, lights, and touches. He would have fought if he could. He wished they would just get the message and leave him alone. He wanted to be left alone. After some time, they all did fade away, except for that one weight.

"I know you're in there. Don't do this to me after everything I went through to get here…"

"Everything…_you_ went through…?" he retorted out loud before he could stop himself. The last sensation to return was that of the ability to work his eyelids. And even then, he was sure he wasn't seeing correctly.

"Hey there, clotpole."

Modern hospital room. Modern intensive care equipment. Hints of the modern developments in his life (particularly the ugly track marks in his left arm). But there sat _Arthur_, also dressed in modern clothes. Alive. Looking as healthy as the day they left Camelot for the last time. And as pampered, if the brand names he could spot were anything to go by. It didn't make sense. And his chest wasn't making things any easier.

"What…'re you _doing_ here?"

Arthur's face took on an unusually concerned expression. "Not the reaction I was expecting, but they did say you were pretty bad off. It's me, Merlin. That is, if you still go by that name after all this time…"

"Of course I'm still me. Explain!" Merlin pointed unsteadily at Arthur's face, and then at the designer logo on his button up.

"Well, I've been here for about two years. Suddenly woke up in the body of some important couple's son, who apparently looks exactly like me. Six-month coma after a motorbike accident. Turns out a traumatic brain injury is a nice excuse to have everyone explain where you are and what's going on." Arthur ran a hand through his blonde hair. "Couldn't believe it at first, not that I had much of a choice. So I put everything I could into piecing it all together. Fifteen hundred years! I never would have pictured all this in our future!"

Merlin bit his lip to keep from making a snide comment about those 'amazing' years-gone-by.

"And I kept getting this feeling, like there was an urgent reason I was here, now. I mean, I remember Avalon, but it was just kind of this…ongoing dream. Anyway, one day I'm wandering through a bookshop, and I spot this title about Camelot. I grabbed it immediately. Don't know what the writer was thinking—some of it was utter nonsense. I wasn't stolen away and raised by some doddery old man in a pointed hat! It certainly wasn't you. So I kept looking. Some books had different versions. I don't know what kind of historians they thought they were. We couldn't have hoped to do some of the things they mentioned. But the point was, it was us! And I realized, a lot of the stories said that I was meant to come back when Albion needed me again. And you would be waiting for me.

"So I started poring through history books, thinking if I was back for a specific quest, maybe I could track you down. My 'parents,'" Arthur made little air quotations, "thought it must be some strange effect of being in a coma for six months, so they let me be. If you meant to stay under the radar, by the way, you weren't as careful as you thought. I could pick you out easily in whatever bookish or medical stuff you did. Glad to see not everything has changed. Eventually, though, the trail just stopped. Guess you got tired of seeking attention in disguise, I guess."

"Arthur…" Merlin tried to break in.

"Then that feeling started picking up again. I would have weird dreams, wake up in cold sweats, get random spells of vertigo. Even passed out once or twice. My parents took me to the emergency room to get checked out, but they couldn't find anything."

"Arthur, please…"

"Four days ago it hit me like a panic attack. I was on my way to get a drink with some friends, and I just started running, like the feeling was telling me where to go. I knew my way around the West End well enough. Of all places, it led me to this decrepit old hostel, couldn't have been touched in years. And only one door was bolted."

Merlin closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear the rest.

"I couldn't believe what I saw at first. I instantly knew it was you, despite the clothes and the dirt and how you were slumped down. The whole drifter thing I could handle. What scared me was the sight of your arm. That was the _one_ _thing_ I never could have imagined you doing. I called the medics, they got you here to the hospital, and…well, here we are. Except they said you had taken enough, had been using long enough, that you might not wake up…guess they got that wrong, eh...?"

Merlin couldn't look Arthur in the eye. He never expected it to happen like this. He had come to grips with the fact that it wouldn't happen at all, in fact. So he felt all the more shamed to face the returned king in such a state. He was angry, too. Arthur talked about all their years apart like it had been a holiday, an unavoidable yet tolerable separation which had now come to an end! He wanted to shake the prat for his ignorance, somehow make him feel what it had been like to _live_ all that time. Waiting. Longing. Struggling. This wasn't a happy reunion! This was fate's twisted idea of continuing to screw with Merlin's head. Some sadistic test to see how far he could be pushed. If he didn't acknowledge the trick, maybe it would finally go away…just go away already…

"Merlin?"

He glanced up reluctantly—and that's when he realized Arthur was crying. The leader who was fearless, steady, stoic in the face of any challenge, was breaking down here in a hospital room. No man was worth his tears. Yet he cried now, for Merlin, of all people.

"Merlin, I once said that you were the only friend I had, and I couldn't bear to lose you," Arthur spoke again, his voice rough. "I learned too late who you really were back then, which left me without proper time to get to know that side of you. Frustration got the better of me, I'm afraid. I can't express how sorry I am for that." He gripped Merlin's right forearm, unadorned except for the plastic ID bracelet. "You're still my only real friend. I wasn't going to lose you again, not if I could possibly help it."

Merlin knew this was meant to make him feel better. His emotions waged war inside his fuzzy brain. It took a few minutes to find his own words. "You have to understand, Arthur. You slept through fifteen _hundred_ years of history. I didn't. After watching you die, I had to…well, you figured it out…but I'm not sure you could ever imagine _waiting_ that long, hoping to see you return, while the world staggered through chaos upon chaos…" His throat was too dry to continue. Arthur poured him a little plastic cup of water.

"What you saw when you found me…I was done. With all of it. I _wanted _to be done. I had nothing left to give for a world that doesn't want to be saved. I tried. I really did. I believed for so long, stuck through so many horrible lifetimes, and a few that were better. I was just ready for it to end. No one is meant to live that long. Why did I have to?"

Arthur studied Merlin carefully. Merlin knew he must look awful—underweight, sallow-skinned, and hooked up to machines to boot. He had a number of scrapes that hadn't been cared for properly. By rights he _should_ be dead. From this perspective, he could start to understand a bit why Arthur was so upset. Maybe the king hadn't just picked up where he left off, either, not to mention having had two years to adjust to the modern world. They were both very different.

"The legends said…it's weird to think of our own time as 'legend,' isn't it?...they said I would come back when the kingdom needed me," Arthur started slowly. "Until that point, it seems to me like you had kept Camelot alive. Kept hope alive. You kept on with what you thought was right for all those years, no matter what it cost you. It was only about two years ago when you started to give up, wasn't it?"

Merlin swallowed hard, and nodded. He picked at the worn blanket that covered him to his chest. The ache there as he breathed finally began to ebb.

"Maybe that's why I was finally needed again. I know it sounds really philosophical, but it seems fitting of legend, right? That help is only needed when hope in a better future is lost."

"Are you actually saying something wise?" Merlin asked, fighting the beginnings of a smile.

"I suppose it could be, couldn't it?" The old, sure grin returned at last. Merlin had longed to see that smile since the day he lost Arthur. A weight seemed to lift from his heart, one so familiar he didn't realize he still had it until it was gone.

Still smiling, Arthur swiped a Jell-O cup and spoon from the bedside table. "Must have picked up somthing good from you after all, then. Better late than never, right?" He froze with the jiggling orange spoonful halfway to his mouth. "My apologies, bad choice of statement."

"Now thinking about what you say _and_ apologizing? Perhaps I'm dead after all!" scoffed Merlin. The chuckling aggravated his chest, however, so he had to cut that short. Arthur was instantly attentive.

"Anything you need? Should I call a nurse? The doctor was still concerned with lasting effects when he was in here."

"Let's start with slowing down. I just woke up after an overdose, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, about that…" Arthur fidgeted a bit in his plastic seat. "I've been looking into programs that could help you. Can't say I'm fond of the idea of my best friend as a junkie. The warlock part is enough to keep my hands full! I can cover pretty much any cost to get you on your feet. You need to take care of yourself, Merlin."

"What if it never ends? Do I ever get a chance to move on? I'm tired, Arthur." And Merlin _did_ feel exhausted at the moment. The excitement of finally having Arthur back didn't quite overtake the fact that he was not in the best of health. Nagging hunger, as well as the absence of his chemical crutch, were wreaking havoc on his head and stomach. He had to close his eyes to steady himself even though he lay still.

"We'll figure it out. I'm here to help now, that's all you need going through your head. Let's start with getting you food and rest, okay? Leave the puzzles for when you can walk out of here."

Merlin nodded. Arthur's presence made all the difference in the world. This corner of the world, anyway. He relaxed against the pillows as the once and future king asked a passing orderly about finding crackers or cereal. For now, everything was alright. Not perfect, but worth living a little longer for.


End file.
